


Currently Untitled

by MollokoPlus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-05-20 18:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14899700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollokoPlus/pseuds/MollokoPlus
Summary: Thumps and soft groans from the bedroom pulled their attention from their meal plans.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [edenforest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenforest/gifts).



> You'll want to re-read Chapter 1, because it's been revised just a bit, part "Come on, M+, you can do better than that" and part "You three couldn't have told me this *before* I posted the first chapter??"

Istanbul hadn’t been a raving success, but it hadn’t been a complete disaster, either. The newly minted team had to adjust to being a team, rather than three people thrust together in a hastily thrown together project. But there was a learning curve in becoming a team, and that curve came with peaks, valleys, twists and turns, roadblocks, bottlenecks, badly designed roundabouts, potholes, and detours. At least the “traffic accident” excuse had worked well to explain their still-healing injuries from Rome, and was actually close to the truth.

Madrid had been more successful, but, like Istanbul, not without its flaws. The bright side to both of those missions: there’d been no further injuries. Lisbon, Bogotá, Lima, Sydney, Tokyo, even Bangkok had gone well, each mission a little smoother than the last, but not without mishaps. Bruises, scratches, scrapes here, a bloody nose there, a cold from Belfast which worked its way inexorably through the team the way chicken pox works its way through a classroom full of young children.

Athens was different. It started out well enough, but then Kuryakin disappeared while tailing a mark. It took nearly a week to finally locate him, in a small disused warehouse on the outskirts of the city, broken and battered and bruised. The search had been complicated by the fact that the fledgling UNCLE organization hadn’t yet recruited any Greek-speaking agents or support staff, so Gaby, Solo, and even Waverly had been forced to resort to Greek-English dictionaries and inventive gesturing. How hard could it be to find a blond Russian giant in a country which seemed to be full of small, dark-haired people? There was also that insignificant little detail about finishing the mission.

But found him they had, definitely worse for the wear. He was huddled in the corner farthest from the door, his back against one wall, and the other wall to his left. His right leg was extended straight, the left drawn up and leaning against the wall. His feet were bare, his trousers torn and tattered, and the turtleneck and jacket he’d been wearing when he left their hotel suite were gone, leaving him in a tattered and bloodied undershirt. He didn’t look up when they entered, didn’t react at all.

Both of them stared for long moments, looking for movement. Finally a shuddering breath, a harsh exhalation. They moved closer, knelt beside him

“Peril?”

“Illya?”

Several slow blinks, then his head moved, a slow rolling motion against the wall.

“Come on, Peril, it’s time to go.”

The Russian’s eyes were glazed over, dull, uncomprehending. Solo didn’t know if Peril was drugged or concussed—or maybe both, given the size of the goose egg on the side of Illya’s head. He hoped it was one or the other; a survivor himself of a combination of mickey and bashed noggin, he knew how unpleasant the combined effects could be.

Gaby reached out a hand to caress his unshaven face. “Illya? We’re here, you’ll be okay,” she murmured.

“I’m going to get the car and move it closer, and call Waverly. Try to get him ready to move,” Solo told her, and headed outside.

Gaby focused herself on checking Illya over, feeling his forehead to check for fever, looking for obvious openings in him such as knife or gunshot wounds. There was little response from him until she tried to move his left arm, and his mumbled, pained “Nyet” stopped her. She drew back quickly, then a heartbeat later moved forward again, both hands pressed gently to his face. He leaned into her touch, tried to reach up with his right to take her hand in his own, and winced in pain. “Hold still,” she whispered. “Let me see.”

She took a closer look at him: the left forearm was misshapen, swollen, and his right shoulder looked odd to her. She’d never seen a dislocated shoulder, but she suspected that’s what she was looking at now. It looked unpleasant, and her own shoulder twinged a bit in sympathy. He hadn’t gone down without a fight: the knuckles of both hands were covered with blood, the skin broken and bruised in several places. What she could see of his face was a patchwork of bruises in a variety of colors and small cuts, and one eye was swollen nearly shut. “Illya, can you stand? We need to get you out of here.”

The door banged open; it was Solo.

“Waverly says that if he isn’t bleeding out and is mostly ambulatory and – what was it? – oriented to place and time, find a clinic to treat him, and head for the safe house in Spata. He’s sending a jet to get us back.”

“I didn’t find any obvious holes,” Gaby told him, “but when I tried to move him to check him over, he didn’t like that at all. And that shoulder looks funny. He also hasn’t said much, and looks –” she shrugged helplessly— “lost or drugged or something.”

Solo frowned and looked more closely. “Oh, that’s not good. We can’t even help him up, not with that shoulder like that. I’m going to have to pop it back in place. You might want to turn around and cover your ears; this won’t be pretty.”

Gaby’s lip curled in distaste, but she didn’t look away as Solo eased Illya away from the wall and onto his left side, taking care with the injured left forearm, and then popped the shoulder back into its socket. Illya groaned once, then sighed, and Gaby thought he sounded relieved. She didn’t ask Solo where he’d learned to do that; she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“Give me your scarf; we need a sling. Actually, we could use a couple of slings, but one will have to do. I don’t see any way to splint that arm, either. Peril, this is going to hurt like hell, but we need to get you out of here.”

***

If she thought it had taken hours for them to get Illya out of the warehouse—it had actually been only minutes—and find a clinic, the wait while Illya was examined and treated lasted an eternity.  Especially when she was alone while Solo returned to their hotel to gather their luggage and check them out. When they were finally allowed to see him, he’d been cleaned up, and the array of scratches and scrapes looked fresh after having been debrided and treated. The broken arm had been set non-surgically and was encased in plaster from above the elbow nearly to his knuckles and secured in a sling. The part of Illya’s left hand not covered in plaster was wrapped in gauze to protect the injuries there. Another sling supported the injured shoulder, and more gauze covered that hand. The staff had managed to dress him in the clean trousers and socks and shoes Solo had provided on his return from the hotel, but had opted not to try to put the shirt on him.

They managed to get Illya into their car and to the safehouse, where they tugged and pushed and pulled to get him out of the car again. Getting him into the house was easier; he was groggy but mobile. They guided him into the little flat’s only bed, slipped his shoes off him, then collapsed on the small, lumpy sofa.

“He’s a lot easier to maneuver around when he’s in water, you know,” Solo commented. “Can you update Waverly while I scrounge up some food? I’m sure Peril will need something, too.”

“Better make it soup or something light like that for Illya. I don’t like how – what do you call it? green around the gills? – he’s looking.”

Solo hummed in agreement and groaned tiredly as he heaved himself up to go to the tiny kitchen. Gaby scrounged around her purse and pulled out her communicator to contact their boss, grateful that she was able to sit for her task. Stuffing their giant Russian partner into the car and then unpacking him twice in a matter of just a few hours hadn’t been easy on any of them, especially since he was unable to help them much.

“Find anything?” Gaby called to Solo.

“Some cans of _fasolada_ soup and _faki_ soup, mostly. Tea—bags, for heaven’s sake! Coffee, a few basics here and there. And one of those round loaves of bread. Not much if you’re expecting gourmet, but enough to tide us over for a little while.” Then he added, “Which I hope is a _very_ little while.”

She joined him in the kitchen. “It looks like probably just overnight. Waverly has that new med team he’s been putting together on the jet he’s sending. So what’s in these soups?”

“The _fasolada_ is a bean and vegetable concoction, and the _faki_ is lentil soup. Worst case, we can probably drain the broth from one or the other for Peril to drink from a cup. I’m not sure how receptive he’ll be to being fed by either one of us, but I don’t think he’s up to handling utensils.”

“Not with both arms in slings!”

Thumps and soft groans from the bedroom pulled their attention from their meal plans.


	2. Chapter 2

Solo and Gaby stared at each other.

“That doesn’t—“

“—sound good at all.”

Solo beat Gaby to the bedroom door by dint of his longer legs, but not by much. It wasn’t quite as bad as it sounded:  Illya had apparently banged the headboard against the wall as he tried to maneuver himself up—there was an obviously fresh dent in the plaster and blue paint on the headboard—and he’d knocked over the lamp on the bedside table on his way to the floor.

“Peril?”

Illya squinted up at Solo with his one good eye, looking directly into his eyes, and gave a tiny movement of his head. “Solo,” he began, and murmured to him in Russian.

“Ummm, yeah, just a second. Gaby,” Solo began, turning to her, “get us a glass of water, please. And, umm, take your time.”

“What—? Oh, right, of course.”

A few minutes later, Solo helped Illya back to the bed where Gaby waited patiently with the polite excuse to give Illya some privacy and a shred of dignity while he was helped in the bathroom.

“ _Спасибо_ ,” he whispered, almost as if he hadn’t the strength to speak aloud.

Gaby stepped closer, and held the glass to his lips. “Easy, easy. No need to drown yourself.”

“Are you hungry, Peril?” Solo inquired once Illya had emptied the glass. “Would you like some broth? There isn’t much on offer here, but I don’t imagine they fed you very well in your dungeon.”

Illya nodded. “Yes, please. A little, anyway.”

“Sit back while Solo gets your dinner ready,” Gaby encouraged him.

Solo returned to the kitchen while Gaby did what she could to help Illya settle. She scrounged all the pillows and cushions she could find and piled them onto the bed. “We might need these,” she insisted at his puzzled look. “Lean forward just a bit … more … okay.” She stuffed a pillow and a cushion behind him. “There. That’s better than the plain headboard, right? I think it’ll be easier when Solo brings the soup, too. Do you need anything else? More water? Solo said there’s tea, too, if you’d like some?”

“Tea. Yes, please.”

Gaby slid off the bed and went over to the bedroom door. “Solo!” she called. “Illya wants some tea, too. Can you put some water on to boil?” She turned back to Illya. “You’ll be okay for a few minutes?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fi--. Well, not fine, but better than before.” His attempt at a self-deprecating shrug with his good shoulder ended in a wince at the weight of the cast.

“Anything I can do to help?” she offered Solo.

“Cups and bowls from that cupboard there, spoons from the drawer. That’s about all, I think. Too bad there’s no butter for the bread.”

“I’ll take the sofa,” Gaby blurted as she stared at the kettle as if willing the water to boil.

“I’m sorry?”

“There’s only the one bed, and only one little sofa. I’ll take the sofa, and you can stay with Illya. If he needs anything during the night, you’ll be right there to help him.”

Solo set down the can of soup he was preparing to dump into a saucepan and stared at Gaby. “No.”

“What? What do you mean by that?”

“ _I_ will take the sofa. He’ll sleep better, I’m sure, with you there. And if he does need anything during the night that you can’t deal with on your own, you can wake me.” He turned back to the stove and resumed his soup preparations.

“I’ll talk to him about it,” she agreed, sounding doubtful. She retrieved bowls and a couple of mugs from the cupboard, then put a tea bag into one of the mugs. “Do you think this will be enough?” She held the other mug up for Solo. “I don’t think it will hold very much.”

“No, it won’t, but we don’t know how long it’s been since he’s had anything other than that glass of water. He needs food, but we don’t need him sick, either. I think a mugful of mostly broth and a slice or two of this bread will be plenty for now.”

Gaby hummed. “Good point. Is there any jam? He likes to sweeten his tea with jam.”

“Only sugar, unfortunately. Put a couple of spoons in; he could use the calories, I think. Oh, I think I saw honey in that other cupboard. He might like that better than sugar.”

“I’ll blame you when he complains it’s too sweet. Is that water boiling yet?”

“Just starting,” Solo said, and moved aside so that she could reach past him to pick up the kettle. While Gaby waited for the tea to brew, Solo cut six slices from the loaf and divided them among three small plates while the soup continued to heat.

A few minutes later, Solo began spooning broth into the mug for Illya while Gaby impatiently dipped the tea bag several times until she decided it was brewed enough, then she spooned honey in and stirred it up.

“Ready?” At Gaby’s nod, he continued, “Let’s get you set up to feed our patient. Too bad we don’t have one of those breakfast-in-bed type trays. I’ll carry the hot stuff if you’ll take the bread and grab one of those chairs to use for a table.”

“That works for me,” Gaby agreed.

“Dinner time, Peril!” Solo announced, and set the two mugs on the chair Gaby placed next to the bed. “Holler if you need anything. Gaby, I’ll keep your share warm for you.”

But Solo changed his mind, showing up in the bedroom just a couple of minutes later with a bowl of soup, a spoon, and a plate of bread slices. “Take turns, you two. A bite for Peril, a bite for Gaby. Don’t let this sumptuous repast go cold.”

Illya hummed his gratitude around a mouthful of broth-soaked bread, while Gaby expressed her own thanks.

They did take turns, and Illya accepted her occasional offerings of a spoonful of her soup with beans and vegetables, and Gaby blamed the sweetness of the tea on Solo.

“Thank you, Gaby. Is enough now.”

“Are you sure?” At his nod, she continued, “Okay, let me get this stuff cleared away, and then I’ll be right back to get you settled in.”

Solo had already removed Illya’s trousers, so it was simply of a matter of getting Illya to lie down. “Are you comfortable? Is the pillow okay?”

“Yes, fine, thank you.”

“Good, good. Let me just—“ Gaby retrieved one of the pillows she had gathered up earlier and took it to Solo to use on the sofa. “Okay, now just let me…” She took another pillow and dropped it onto the floor next to the bed, then found a blanket in a cupboard.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a bed for me. Someone needs to stay close by, in case you need anything.”

“On floor?”

“Well…yes. Why not?”

“Floor is not good. You can sleep here, in this bed. Is big enough for two.”

That was true. Barely.

“No.” She shook her head, dark curls swinging across her shoulders. “It’s not…I mean…Solo is right here, and –“

“And nothing will happen, except sleep.”

That was also true enough, she conceded. An exasperated puff of air tousled her bangs. “Okay.”

“I promise I will keep my hands to myself.”

“Oh, Illya!”

It took some time for him to get truly comfortable, the cast weighing heavy against bruised ribs and the shoulder needing just a little support, too. But once Gaby had folded a bath towel to cushion his ribs, then folded a smaller towel to place under his injured shoulder, he finally drifted off. She lay curled beside him, one hand resting on his sling-clad elbow.


	3. Chapter 3

The signal from the communicator in Gaby’s purse roused Solo where he dozed on the sofa in the sitting room. None of them had slept very well. Peril hadn’t really needed anything the rest of the night, but he kept waking himself up periodically, every time he tried to shift position and caused himself pain, which woke Gaby, which woke Solo. Neither of them, Solo knew from experience, was a particularly sound sleeper, Gaby inflicted with insomnia and Peril tormented by whatever demons plagued him on a nearly nightly basis and almost certainly exacerbated by events of the last week. And, of course, the sofa really would have been better suited to someone Gaby’s size. The team Waverly sent was approaching the flat, no doubt advised by him to warn the agents of their impending arrival.

“Gaby? Peril? Waverly’s team is almost here. Gaby, would you see our guests in while Peril and I…” Solo trailed off, one hand waving vaguely in the direction of the bathroom, wondering why he felt the need to be delicate about such ordinary routines. He shook his head at himself as Gaby returned to the bedroom from the tiny bathroom. “Piss time, Peril. Our chariot is arriving, and we’ll be heading for home soon.”

Illya moved more easily this morning, Solo noted, standing ready to help when and how he would be needed, but not as smoothly as normal and still a bit wobbly. By the time they’d both finished in the bathroom, Gaby was letting the medical team in.

“You must be Agent Teller. I’m Doctor Newport and these are Haslam and Andrews.”

“Pleased to meet you. Illya—Agent Kuryakin—is in the bedroom.” Gaby led them to the bedroom doorway.

They set their bags to either side of Illya, and Newport and Haslam began easing the slings off him, while Andrews started asking about the history of the injuries and of Illya’s general health and pertinent medical information. Illya answered as well as he could, but was still foggy about many details of his recent imprisonment. Solo and Gaby contributed, too, since the clinic’s attending physician had explained to them what he had found and the nature of his treatment processes.

Pulse, heart, respirations, temperature, blood pressure were all measured by Newport and Haslam, and duly recorded by Andrews. They poked, prodded, and palpated, keeping up a running commentary for Andrews and his clipboard, and Illya bore it all in stoic silence, until Haslam began manipulating the injured shoulder.

“Sorry, lad,” she responded to the groan of protest. “We’re nearly done here. How long was this shoulder dislocated?”

“Am not sure. I had no way to keep track of time. More than one day, I think.”

“It’s no wonder it still hurts,” Haslam said. “We’ll take some more X-rays when we get back. You’ll be at least a week in the sling, lad. A shave, too, methinks, to let us have a look at the facial bruising. I’ve no doubt there are some bruises hiding under that beard.”

“Does he have a shirt?” Andrews asked. “Something we can alter somehow? We can ease the right sleeve on, but we’ll need to do something to get it ‘round the cast. I’m thinking cut off the left sleeve, open up the side seam enough to get the shirt ‘round him on that side, then some quick and sloppy stitches to close it up. I don’t think he wants to parade ‘round the streets of London shirtless, although I’m sure there are some who’d not mind.”

“I’ll get one out of his suitcase,” Solo offered, and he and Gaby set to work on the modifications.

“Dainty?” Gaby asked. “Or quick and dirty?”

“Quick and dirty, I think. Even if I had a seam-ripper in my sewing kit, picking that many stitches to preserve a plain white shirt is ridiculous. We can buy him another one when we get back to London.”

“Bespoke, of course.”

“Gaby! As long as he is? We’ll hardly find anything suitable on the rack.”

The final step had Newport and Haslam unwrapping, inspecting, and re-wrapping Illya’s hands, and then replacing both slings once the shirt was in place.

“That’s it for now. If you’re all ready, we can get this lad into his trousers and shoes and all of us to the airfield.”

Illya’s stomach chose that moment to growl noisily.

“Good job we’ve a galley and a cook on the aeroplane, then, right, lad?” Haslam tousled his hair.

***

“I could get used to this sort of thing very easily,” Solo commented as they exited the plane. “That was a very nice flight. Ah, Peril, it looks like you get to ride while the rest of us stroll along on shanks’ pony.”

“I don’t need wheelchair,” Illya protested.

“Lad, Mr Solo had to help you to the car, help you into the car, help you out of the car, and help you board the aeroplane. You fell asleep immediately after you told Emmett what you wanted for breakfast, and we had to wake you to eat. You didn’t even get all the way through your breakfast before you’d nodded off again. And when we landed, Mr Solo had to help you off the aeroplane.” Haslam jabbed her index finger at the chair. “Sit.”

Solo watched, fascinated, as Illya seemed to sag just a bit more with each point Haslam made, until, finally, with his head down, he nodded reluctantly. And sat.

Clearing Customs turned out to be ridiculously simple, all things considered.

“Waverly must have some special connections,” Solo mused.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” agreed Gaby. “It was actually almost painless this time.”

“Mr MacDougall should be right outside with the car,” Dr Newport told them. “The plan is for Andrews, Haslam, and me to accompany Mr Kuryakin to a hospital Mr Waverly has engaged until we can get our own facilities built up. Then the two of you will be taken to headquarters for debriefing.”

Gaby thought Illya looked both disgruntled by and resigned to his fate. “We’ll both be by to see you as soon as we can,” she assured him, one hand resting gently on his shoulder near his neck, away from the sore shoulder.

MacDougall waited patiently at the curb, standing by the door of a small limousine. Illya’s height but brawnier than the Russian, he made quick work of getting Illya into the car and the wheelchair into the boot, and then both back out again once they’d arrived at the hospital.

“We’ll be back soon, Illya,” Gaby promised once again.

“Behave yourself, Peril.”

“Come along then, lad. Let’s get you settled in so we can make you miserable.”

Most of the paperwork had already been taken care of by Waverly and his secretary, so it was a matter of getting Illya assigned to a room and transported there.

“Next stop, lad, is to get that cast off and new X-rays taken, and then a shave and a bath. Then, if you don’t fall asleep on us again, we’ll see about getting you fed.” Haslam looked at her watch. “Probably tea time, if all goes well. The orthopedic consult will likely be tomorrow. I don’t think Mr Waverly’s wasted a moment nor a penny on getting any specialist you might need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The business jet is the Hanker Siddeley/British Aerospace HS125, which is at least chronologically correct.
> 
> Please let me know if my British characters sound suitably British! And if not, what can I do to make it happen?


	4. Chapter 4

For the first time in what seemed like a very long time, he was clean. And felt truly clean, too—he never had been a fan of sponge baths. True to Haslam’s word, his hair had been washed as well, and he was clean shaven. That much felt good, even if the rest of him wasn’t quite up to normal. They weren’t letting him feed himself yet, as they wanted to keep the shoulder immobilized as much as possible.

They’d also advised him that he was being kept here for a couple of days at minimum. “For observation,” they’d told him. There was still some concern over whether the lump on his head indicated a concussion, and how severe a concussion if concussion it in fact was. They also wanted to be sure that whatever he’d been drugged with during so much of his captivity was cleared out of his system. “You’re still more than a bit wobbly, lad,” Haslam insisted. “Better safe than sorry.”

The new X-rays were done, too, and waiting for the orthopedic specialist’s visit. The cast had not yet been replaced, as his arm was still somewhat swollen around the break, so they had splinted the arm to limit mobility until the swelling went down to their satisfaction. Their commentary about the casting of the swollen arm hadn’t been kindly. They did tell him his ribcage was secure—bruised, but nothing broken there—and for that he was grateful. Scrapes and scratches had been cleaned and treated again; nothing needed stitches; and there wasn’t a thing to do for the bruises but to let them turn colors and eventually fade away.

Didn’t stop them from being inconvenient, and the boxy cardboard splint irritated the bruised ribs almost more than the heavy cast had. At least the plaster hadn’t had corners poking him.

Gaby and Solo still hadn’t come by to visit by the time they’d finished feeding him his broth a short time ago, and now he was fading away again. It had been easy to sleep on the plane, resting both arms on the arm-rests of the plush seating, away from tender ribs. But even with the head of the hospital bed raised as high as it would go, he couldn’t achieve that level of comfort. His good eye drifted closed anyway. He liked it better when Gaby fed him.

When he woke some while later, after yet again trying to change position and being reminded sharply of his injuries, three floral arrangements and a stuffed bear with an arm wrapped in gauze tied off with a neat little bow occupied the over-bed table beside him. He turned his head to try to look more closely.

Then Gaby was beside him, and he felt the back of her hand against his cheek, then her palm on his forehead, checking for a temperature he was fairly sure he didn’t have. That hand continued farther up his forehead, into his hair, a gentle smoothing which slipped past his ear and stopped at the join of neck and shoulder and stayed there. Her other hand rested once again on his elbow.

“The flowers are from Solo. I think he couldn’t make up his mind, so he got all three. I was almost afraid he was going to stop at every florist we drove by.”

“And bear?”

Gaby blushed, and the hand at his elbow slid farther along his arm to his hand and squeezed it gently.

“Is nice,” Illya mumbled groggily. “ _Are_ nice. Solo is…?”

“He said something about ‘rustling up some grub.’ I think he means food.”

Illya hummed. “Sounds like him.”

“How are you? Are you in any pain? Did they feed you?”

She couldn’t resist a hand to his forehead, his cheek, once more, he could tell. “Feeling better. Little pain. Little food. _Too_ little food. I will soon fade away to nothing.”

“You really are a mess. They beat you pretty badly.”

“And now those who are supposed to help me are starving me. I will never get well.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Mm-hm. That’s why Waverly’s sparing no expense for you, right?”

“But no money for food.”

He did his best to look horrified when she gave him a playful slap.

“Did someone say ‘food’?”

They both turned toward the doorway, where Solo stood with a wicker basket festooned with yet more flowers. He shouldered the door closed gently.

“I cannot eat flowers, Cowboy.”

“No, Comrade, but they’re excellent cover.” Solo set the wicker basket on the floor, then went to work clearing the over-bed table of its bouquets, which he set on the floor near the wall. He tucked the bear against Illya’s side, ignoring the glare, and began emptying the basket. “I haven’t tasted it yet, but this borsch looks and smells wonderful. _И смитана_ , of course. And, oh, this bread is still just a little warm; what a pleasant surprise!”

Illya stared in awe as more items came from the basket: smoked sausages; pelmeni; vinegret; a jar of pickled tomatoes, cucumbers, and cabbage. Plates, silverware, serving pieces, even glasses and serviettes joined the items Solo placed on the table. Had he done it deliberately? Carried in all those floral arrangements as a cover for this? No one on staff would think twice about Solo hauling in even more flowers, and this time it craftily hid a dinner for three. It all looked, well, _heavenly_ , to be honest. He was also fairly certain it all couldn’t be the best options for him, so much salt and such after so little, even if it had been only a week with little more than nothing, and a couple of days of not much more than broth and bread. He would just be careful, take only a little of each item.

“I passed on the wines and kvass. I didn’t think your doctors would like it if you got drunk your first night here. I did pick up some fruit juices.”

“Thank you, Cowboy.”

Solo busied himself doling out portions for each of them, filling soup bowls and plates, and handing silverware to Gaby so that she could feed herself and Illya. “Eat up,” he insisted.

He ate more than he’d planned to, and fell asleep to the sounds of Solo tidying up.


End file.
